When I sit before a colored Pc,During my restless void times to seeAnd to scan the unending pages of greenThat drops down from the tech screen,Of internet and broad-band width,To grab the matter and images filth,From numbers to sentences dense,From syllables of sense to non-sense,Of true and untrue meaning of mess,That came out of countless men’s guess,For which my eye-balls pop-out,To the discomfiture of inner shout,While lachrymal bleed tears of strain,To the madness of thirsty crooked brain.